


Peccavi

by Davechicken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Tag for 'Lucifer Rising'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just before 'Lucifer Rising'. Castiel seeks to understand his part in the ineffable plan. The title is Latin for 'I have sinned.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peccavi

The world is warm outside. The day is drawing to a close, the sun sighing beneath the horizon, but her blanket of heat still spread over the roads and sidewalks, sliding slowly after her. He can feel the heat seeping through the cloth between his shoulderblades. Without knowing that he should, he enjoys it. 

_1\. In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, 2. the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. 3. Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light. 4. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. 5. God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day._

He lets the sun cast her lingering eyes over him, lets the low whisper of the breeze kiss his cheeks and stroke fingers through his hair. These physical, tactile sensations are alien to him, and he finds he can appreciate Creation more now that he can sense it in the way other of His Father’s works do. There is beauty in everything He made, and whilst some of his brethren shun this perception as less _pure_ , complete, or perfect, it is just a valid way of experiencing reality as the angelic one. 

It is like, he thinks, _smelling_ music. Tasting light. An entirely new way to feel.

And it makes it a little clearer to him why humans love being alive so. After all, their experiences of the world are so closely linked to their physical frame that of course they must worry that once the frame expires, so will the world. How else could they conceive of heat without the chemical reaction in their cells? How could they know sound with no ears to feel the vibration?

No one sees him standing before the doorway like this, for who knows how long. He has no need to keep himself invisible, for no one darkens the door to his Father’s house whilst he is there. It makes him sad to realise how they tumble past in their automobiles, cocooned in airbags and ABS and air-conditioning and audio-systems. Sound and metal making a cage, and no one looking up from the road to see the things they pass by.

He walks forwards, not needing to touch the doors to make them open wide and greet him, or close behind him like a welcoming embrace. Inside it is cooler, with heavy patterned tiles spreading over the floor like water, and warm wood blossoming into aisles, books and pulpit. He looks up at the vaulted ceiling, dancing with paint. The images in here fill him with memories: the ox, Luke, preaching with Holy Spirit dancing over his tongue. Noah, who had looked so worried and who had prayed every night for strength on the ark. 

God’s son. He remembers how the host had thrummed with joy at his birth. Remembers the look on his mother’s face when he took his first steps, when he gave his first sermon. The pain of the crucifixion, the ecstasy of rebirth. 

The images do not look right. The faces are wrong – often the wrong colour – and the halos that circle saintly heads are like a child’s interpretation of _grace_ , but he loves every one for remembering. For _caring_.

He walks slowly to the end of the aisles, towards the altar and the pulpit. The sun still seeks him through the stained glass, and casts coloured excerpts from his past across his face. _His_ face. The vessel. 

His own face would radiate brighter than the setting sun’s rays. His own voice would smash the glass of every frame into sand.

He does not kneel at the altar, and is surprised to feel eyes watching him. He had forgotten he was visible, for in this poor, misguided town not a person has looked at him all day.

The attention makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His body still has these reactions, sometimes making little to no sense to him at all. He covers over any outward sign of them, but inwardly he _feels_ them, tries to understand.

There is a soft rustle of heavy fabric and the gaze is gone, but the unsettled feeling remains. He turns to look but sees no one, and merely senses a quiet presence in the box to the side.

He stares at the altar, until the sun is gone and the only lights are the flickering candles which gutter slowly to their death in offering to the Lord of Love, Lord of Mercy. To one side, a half-opened door burbles a little electric yellow, but otherwise the dusk is setting in. He wonders why the figure is allowing the darkness inside.

Eventually, he realises the other is waiting for him. The slow, stead breaths are a patient man, waiting for his question. No intrusion allowed, merely a silent watchfulness. He wonders if he should leave – should vanish into the night air or let the doors fall softly behind him? He does not want this man to wait for him, when it might take a lifetime for him to know what to ask.

But no. He came here for a reason. God’s work is everywhere, and an angel can receive revelation without entering his church. He is here for a reason.

Another pause – and the patience the man is showing shames him – and he approaches the little box, and slips almost silently inside. He allows for the sound of his hands on his coat, and the brush of his trousers as he seats himself. And waits.

“You can talk here, my son,” says the voice at last. It is local, warm and older. There is no rush of panic here, nor any whispered entreaty or prayer. It is reassuring, though he finds it does not have that effect on him.

“I know,” he replies, to acknowledge that he has heard. He does know. Has heard countless others do the same.

“This is the one place you can say whatever you want, son. Can say whatever you’re too afraid to say to anyone else. And we’ll listen.”

Castiel doubts that. He truly does. He puts a hand on the bars separating them, and looks for the first time at the shadowed profile through the grate.

“The listening is the problem,” he says, ruefully. “It would be better if… sometimes… they didn’t.”

There is a pause. He can hear the slight intake of breath. Whatever his best intentions, the man cannot hope to listen impartially. Cannot hope to not judge, even if that is God and God alone’s domain. Judgement.

“Here it is just you, me, and the Lord,” the man says after only a very brief pause, and his voice sounds sure of this.

Castiel has not the heart to tell him that it is him, the Lord, Castiel and all of the angelic host. But perhaps angels are considered merely an extension of the Lord? It is hard to tell.

“Forgive me, Father…” He cannot say the rest. Cannot say ‘I have sinned’. He isn’t sure he has. Is fairly sure he _hasn’t_ , in any technical sense, or else he would be Fallen, surely? And yet…

“The Lord forgives all those who repent, no matter what their wrong.”

And Castiel laughs. He knows. He has seen the once-damned rise again in a new life with the Saviour. Has seen paradise, perdition and right through to the core of souls sent to both. He _knows_.

“This was a mistake,” he says, and stands.

On the other side of the pane, his hopeful rescuer stands too.

Castiel pauses.

“You want to be saved,” the man offers. 

Castiel looks away. “I do not… know… if I need saving.”

He can hear the smile. “Then why come to me?”

Why indeed? Castiel sighs, heavily. He sits, and thinks hard about his response before he replies.

“I do as I should do. I always do as I have been commanded. I have never disobeyed.”

“That is commendable,” says the priest. He sits, too. Cautiously. Castiel hears the creak of his bones.

“But…”

How can he? If he voices his doubts once more, his brethren will know him for the faithless fool he clearly is. If – of course – they cannot already see the stains upon his soul, upon his grace.

“I no longer know what is right and what is wrong, Father. I do not know who to trust. Some I believed were loyal… betrayed me. And I no longer know that what I do is His will.”

There.

There is nothing wrong in that. Nothing. Not in doubting others’ loyalty, once you have reason to suspect. Not in questioning your orders… was there?

“I used to know I did God’s will. But now… I do not know where He is.”

“I see. This one who betrayed you…?”

“I had no idea. He… killed good soldiers. His _own_ soldiers. From jealousy. And… I had no idea.”

How Uriel had managed this, he does not know. He wonders if it is some fault in him that stopped him from sensing the growing evil in his soul. Wonders if he saw, and turned a blind eye. Wonders. Wonders.

“You had faith in him.”

Castiel nods. He did. He thinks.

“Believing in someone is… no reason to feel ashamed. He had the trust of others, did he not?”

Castiel nods again, slower. This was true.

“You cannot change the past. And you cannot allow the actions of one person to stop you from trusting anyone again. How many others do you trust who have not let you down?”

“I don’t know.”

“But some?”

He paused. How could he answer this? “No one else has done so, so far.”

“Then your success rate is good. Not perfect, but no one is.”

That made him wince. Angels were _supposed_ to be.

“And you say you now worry that your work is not righteous. Why is this?”

Why indeed? Was it just Uriel? No, he had almost disobeyed, with Samhain. It had been Uriel’s insistence that they raze the place, and Castiel had let him suggest it. Let him _more_ than suggest it. Even against his own orders.

And Anna. He had been ordered to kill her, and it had _hurt_ , the thought of losing her a second time.

And Dean.

Mostly Dean.

“My orders… before, I followed them and I knew I was doing the right thing. Even if the goal was long term, and there was loss to gain… I knew…”

Dean. And Sam. And Lilith. It did not sit right with him at _all_. Lying? To an agent of the Lord? Rescuing him from Hell itself, so he could keep his brother alive long enough to use his abomination? Purposefully allow his brother to pollute himself in the thought that he was doing _good_?

(He was doing _good_ , Castiel tried to tell himself. God’s work was Good, and so the Apocalypse must be Good and the only reason they had to _lie_ was that humans would not understand. Even if he didn’t understand. Which he should.)

“But now I don’t. I have been asked to lie. I have been asked to allow abomination. I have been asked to _drag a soul from Hell_ who deserved to be there and who turned as black as a demon for the _love of his brother_ , and bring him out but leave a hundred, thousand more to burn in damnation. Why would God’s work require me to do that, Father? Why?”

Why indeed. Castiel realised he had stood up in his passion, had clapped his hands to the screen and pressed his nose against it in the pathetic, desperate hope for an answer. From a simple pastor. Who would think his confession the ramblings of a mad man.

Which he supposed he was. He was an angel who doubted his orders, doubted the divine mandate and had seriously considered selling the whole boat down the river and telling Dean precisely what he had found out. Of running away with Anna and Dean and Sam and Bobby and Amelia and Claire and hiding somewhere and hoping Heaven never found out where.

(Heaven always found out where. It was one of the reasons he did not go. That and he had _seen_ Hell, seen what it had done to someone as good-hearted – if misguided – as Dean. Seen how he almost had not deserved saving, how he had shrunk away from the angel’s holy touch as much as the evil inside him had torn into Castiel’s own soul, how hard he had to fight to pull the sliver of _Dean_ , the righteous man, kicking and screaming back into glory. Remembered how only the knowledge that this _had to work_ and was _God’s Will_ had given him the strength to go on. He wasn’t sure he could go back again. Was sure _Dean_ would not survive a repeat trip.)

“I try not to quote clichés at people, but I’m finding it hard not to say this one.”

“Enlighten me.”

“They say ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions’. You know that one?”

Of course he did. In every language ever spoken, and some never. 

“Of course, they also say ‘The ends justifies the means’ and ‘The need of the many outweighs the need of the few’,” the priest went on.

Castiel sat back down on the small wooden bench. He dropped his head against the frame. It was smooth and cool and creaked very softly. It felt more human than marble or stone, and he was glad of the touch.

“The action of sending a train down a different line over a baby, instead of letting the train and all its passengers fall over a cliff is still murder,” Castiel says, dully. “I know the theory.” Once, it had been a painful pleasure to listen to philosophers. Now he wished he had never listened to their fervent prayers.

“Then you know I can’t advise you to do one thing or another. Merely… see which is truly the lesser of two evils. This is the real world we live in, and sometimes you cannot pick the third option: stop the train.” 

Castiel waited, thinking. It was a dreadful thing to consider. To remember Hell and how – ever since he had met Dean Winchester there – his life had been filled with such doubt and pain, when before he had known both only by association, by observation.

“And yet, before, I would have done all this willingly.”

“What changed?”

“I met someone. In Hell.”

It was easier to say _they had their choice_ and say _no one forced them to make a deal with the devil_ and say _they should have taken the hard route_ when you didn’t _know_ them. Hadn’t seen to the very inside of their soul. Hadn’t seen the _love_ that had driven the decision, hadn’t poured your very self into fixing the hole. 

Hadn’t thought _this is not fair_ and rebelled against a world that would see truly good men burn in damnation, all for some rule, or some prophecy… 

Hadn’t lived on Earth, amongst them all.

“You do not believe me, do you?” Castiel asked, as the silence stretched out unbearably.

“I believe you,” the priest replied.

“But you do not believe I mean this truly. Not merely figuratively.”

“That… is harder to believe,” the priest confessed, “but it isn’t really important, is it?”

Castiel ran a finger over an old, slightly rusted hinge. It was another reminder that for all this was a house of his Father, it was imperfect, as all things in this world were.

“I thought he would perceive me. I though he – the righteous man, the man of prophecy, the man who was saved because of an order, not because of his own self—” And that had been hard, later. When he had witnessed the things Dean had done and known he was saved merely for a technicality, and for practical reasons, not compassion. Hard to reconcile himself to and not feel guilty and grateful all at once. “The man I… _healed_ … he could not perceive my true form. Not any more.”

It had hurt. It had been the second hurt, the second doubt.

“I would show you – but if he cannot see me I do not know who can.”

The priest leaned back, then.

“Why do you think I need to see?”

Castiel startled. 

“Do you need to prove yourself to me, or to yourself?” The voice was gentle and kind, but the words stung worse than a lash.

Castiel burned with sudden embarrassment. It wasn’t a feeling he was used to, and it was only through deduction that he even knew what the emotion was. He had never wanted to prove himself before. Did not know even why he had said it. It was entirely unnecessary. 

(It felt _good_ to be able to talk, though. About everything. About all those things he couldn’t say to the host. To Dean. He understood why humans confessed, now. And why they always, _always_ seemed to talk…)

“It isn’t faith if it isn’t tested, son,” the priest said warmly, and tutted softly against his teeth. “No matter what you think.”

“I…” Castiel started to protest, a little offended. He was surprised by the sharp tone in his own voice, by how _much_ he wanted to defend himself and his actions. He was an Angel of the Lord! If he was not faithful, who was?

“Not faith. You told me you’d had it all along with no worries. That wasn’t _faith_ , young man. Just belief.”

And the realisation hit him in the stomach like nothing he had ever felt before. He cried out with the force of it, and dropped to his knees in the small wooden cell. It was like receiving revelation, having never known it before. He felt stupid and small, realised his arrogance and his pride.

_Faith_.

“Do what you think is right, son. Keep doing that, remember you’re not perfect, and remember He loves you and you’ll get there in the end.”

Castiel pressed his hands to his face. He did not know what to say. Did not know how to respond. His eyes were dry, but so was his mouth and his heart hammered in his chest like it was ready to break. 

_Do what you think is right_.

Maybe this was God testing him? Maybe he could no longer accept things at face value, like the sons of Abraham in the face of Mary’s virgin child, whose whole world had transformed by the Messiah? Or perhaps it was a test of his faith and devotion, and Dean was his sacrificial lamb, who would be saved at the last minute if only his guardian angel should succeed in his test?

“Help me,” he whispered into the dark, bowed and cramped in the small wooden box that felt suddenly like a coffin closed above him, with Castiel buried alive inside.

Little pink fingers pressed into the grille and Castiel could see the priest looking down at him in concern.

“I will pray with you,” the man said.

But Castiel wasn’t sure he knew how. All the prayers he knew were prayers for men.

_Our Father, who art in Heaven,_  
Hallowed be thy name,  
Thy Kingdom come… 

Castiel could not say that. Could not _wish_ that. It would be hypocrisy and blasphemy in one.

“Father,” he whispered, cowed and small. “Guide me. Forgive me. _Help_ me,” he said instead, fervent and low.

The priest was silent on his side of the confessional, and Castiel could feel how the vessel protested this treatment. It was tight and crowded, and his knees began to ache. Castiel ignored the pain, but a wave of pity for the man who had attended him so long clutched at his heart.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the priest, who smiled, suddenly, at the image of a young man in a trench-coat with normal worries and normal sins, who had walked from the confessional feeling better than he had when he came in.

“Of course, my son,” said the priest, crossing himself and sending a silent prayer upwards in thanks, before exiting himself to go about his evening duties.

This left Castiel alone in the box, alone to brood on what the man had told him.

Faith. It reverberated around his chest, still. A question of Faith. 

But the answer had yet to come to him: if he should weather the storm like he always had, or whether instead he should… _change_?

He did not know the answer. Not yet. But he knew at least what the question was, now. No longer did it buzz about his head just out of earshot, no longer did the disquiet coil like a serpent in his gut.

Now it was as plain as the writing on the wall.

And if he should Fall, it would be because he had made the wrong decision and proven himself unworthy. But at least he would know _why_.

Castiel stood slowly, feeling the way the vessel’s knees creaked and groaned like so much old wood in amongst the marble and stained glass. He could have deadened those feelings like the ones of hunger and exhaustion, but he chose not to. Chose to feel, instead.

The priest was nowhere to be seen when he walked into the apse once more. Only one, flickering candle illuminated the dark room, and the glass was dark with night.

Castiel walked silently to the altar and kneeled.

“Forgive me, Father,” he whispered.

He heard no reply, and he realised this must be what it felt like to the worshippers every Sabbath. Praying to the dark. They did not even have the benefit of _knowing_ God had once been here, as his host did.

Castiel got to his feet.

He walked to the door and let it breathe open and shut around him. As soon as the leather of his shoes met the sidewalk, he heard the busy chatter of his brethren bubble around his soul.

_Castiel, it is time. I am bringing Dean in. Come at once._

Zachariah. 

He must not have been listening to Castiel’s confession, after all. 

_At once,_ he agreed and vanished.

He would not have long to consider the question at all. Somehow, he thought if he had another two millennia it would not have been enough.

Castiel hoped he chose right. His own soul be damned, the stakes were larger than just one angel, one human and one… half-human, half-demon. 

It was literally the end of the world.

Dean did not look impressed.


End file.
